Trials of Transformation
by deftPirate
Summary: An experienced Padawan faces a brutal challenge, and a juncture of destiny. His future, and that of many others, hinges on one moment. How many paths can one choice yield? *Original story set an indeterminate time pre-Phantom Menace*
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Footsteps. Steady, but unhurried.

In the absolute darkness of the ancient chamber, a sound echoed for the first time since it had been sealed, centuries before.

Amplified though the sounds were by the bareness of the subterranean shrine outside, the thick walls reduced the steps to little more than muffled shuffling inside the main chamber. But it was no matter; there was only one there to hear it. One who had been expecting company long before the footsteps betrayed its arrival.

After long minutes, the footsteps stopped on the other side of the chamber wall, pausing and then beginning again, following along the two walls that protruded out into the larger shrine, and then pacing back to the corner where they met and stopping once more. Silence prevailed. Were it not for the absence of retreating footsteps, the shrine might have seemed abandoned again. But its visitor was not so easily deterred. Something, not a sound, as such, but palpable, blossomed from the corner of the chamber. A moment later, the room shuddered, disturbing the accumulated layers of dust and sediment. With an earthen groan and a sharp crack, a splinter of light burst on the room as the walls separated. They continued to slide steadily apart, received into hidden recesses of the shrine, and as the light from the new doorway swelled, it framed the silhouette of a robed figure standing just outside, hand raised commandingly. The hand lowered as the walls ground to a stop.

The light shifted as the figure moved into the room, revealing a knee-high slab of rock apparently set into the red stone floor. The solitary shaft of light played across its pitted surface, as the figure slowly paced around it. The thick layer of dust gave it the impression of porous, bleached red bone. At the head of the slab was a simple square plinth, oriented with one corner pointing to the slab, and the opposite one pointing into the corner of the chamber. A four sided pyramid hardly larger than an average human palm projected up from its bare top.

The pilgrim stopped beside the plinth, hooded head looking briefly between it and the slab beside it. The hand extended again, over the plinth, and that same tangible power filled the room for a moment before dissipating like a gust of wind over the pillar, sweeping away the dust as though it were never there. The pyramid could now be seen for what it was; not a part of the pillar, but an artifact: a crystalline blue structure with finely etched symbols clad in a silvery metal frame. The metal also bore markings, though mostly straight intersecting lines, unlike the curving characters set in the crystal. The figure seemed to hesitate at the sight of it, and as if in response, it began to glow. Pale blue light welled up at its heart, dim, but bright enough to illuminate the head of the plinth where it sat. Something moved through the room, like a deep sigh, snapping the visitor's attention to the darkest corner. But there was nothing. All was still. The wait was over.

Turning back to the artifact, a small open-handed gesture sent it levitating upward, it's glow intensifying. Having risen almost to eye level with the hooded figure, it gave a small, mechanical click, and the tip split into four and folded back. A semitransparent projection materialized above the slab. It was a straight-backed figure clad in similar robes, though with the hood down, revealing the face of an elderly man of a darker, perhaps tanned, complexion with a smooth bald head and a silvery looking beard. He began to speak almost as soon as he appeared.

"Greetings. You hav-You hav-You hav-You hav-" The old man twitched each time, unable to finish his sentence before the projection would reset. The pilgrim looked back at the artifact, and it shook up and down in the air for a moment. "You have been led here by the Force," the projection finished this time, and the pyramid became still again as the visitor's attention returned to the old man.

"I believe this," he said quietly, "and not just because this chamber will have been sealed by barriers only the Force could open." The creases at the corners of his eyes became more pronounced as he squinted, as if actually seeing the hooded pilgrim. "The Force is a manifestation of _destiny_. And yours has brought you here. Compared to the Masters who came before, and the many who will surely come after, my experience feels but little. Yet it seems that I cannot have solace until I have recorded my journey and what wisdom it may offer for others. I must trust, then, that it will serve a greater purpose. So here I have waited for it to be fulfilled."

The hooded pilgrim sank into a seated position as the projection went on.

"In the beginning, I was known as Bor'om. What I shall be remembered as, I leave to you to decide. Like many, I learned of my connection to the Force as a child…"


	2. Chapter 1

Dusk crawled across the western hemisphere, the planet's quiet, orange star falling quickly behind the peak of a low slung range of mountains to the northwest. A solitary figure stood silhouetted on a jutting hilltop overlooking a green and gray valley. Clad in a thick robe that appeared more red than brown in the fading light, the figure turned slightly, allowing the gleam to penetrate the hood of the robes and reveal a red-orange face set with piercing turquoise eyes. The Togruta woman's brow was furrowed as she called into her communicator. Neah Tenei had been trying unsuccessfully to raise her apprentice on the comms device for several minutes.

"Bor'om? Bor'om, come in. Bor'om, where are you?"

At last the device chirped back a response.

"Here, Master."

Neah exhaled sharply through her small, but flaring nostrils, half hoping the communicator would carry her gesture of exasperation through to its recipient while her eyes narrowed with her words.

"Where were you, Padawan, and why didn't you respond?"

"Nature called, Master, and I had to answer," came the jovial response from a masculine voice, garbled slightly by the battered communicator.

"Such irreverence, Bor'om. Keep your mind on the task at hand. We cannot afford to be distracted on this mission."

"Of course, Master. Rest assured, I kept my senses attuned to any, eh, disturbances the, ahem, entire time."

Neah tried to suppress a smile, despite nobody being present to see it. "I have no doubt. Any sign of our smuggler friends?"

"Not yet, Master. I have a vantage point over the entire basin, but there hasn't been any movement since this afternoon."

Neah gazed out over the valley, keen eyes picking out the plateau almost directly opposite her where her apprentice kept watch.

"We will exercise patience, then," she instructed, "If they do not appear by morning, we will need to report the delay to the Council. They are eager to see this case closed."

"Master, I still find it difficult to believe that any smuggling ring would so boldly traffic slaves so far into the interior. The severity of the laws..."

"Greed is a powerful motivator, young apprentice, and many slavers pay exorbitantly for slaves they can bill as coming from the interior systems. Even so, I understand your unease. I too feel something unusual at work. Keep your mind open, as well as your eyes. Check in hourly. In the meantime, we have much to meditate on."

"Yes, Master."

Closing the link, Neah returned the device to her belt and after a contemplative pause, knelt on the edge of the hilltop. Her eyes closed serenely, but she became acutely more aware of the valley than she had been while looking at it. At some distance, she could feel her Padawan doing the same, and marveled with some amusement at his ability to go from exuberant to peaceful in the blink of an eye.

Bor'om brushed his master's mind on the other side of the great basin, and then redirected his feelings down into the valley itself. There were no dwellings in the plain below, and the setting of the sun had drawn out but little in the way of nocturnal wildlife. The place appeared picturesque, except for the stain of fear on the landscape. It had been their great fortune that Bor'om had sensed it after their previous lead had gone nowhere. Master Tenei's relief at having caught the trail had outweighed her concern over her padawan's reckless use of his empathic powers. The human youth, tan skinned, with wide brown eyes, often evaded his Master's censure with such conundrums, though she rarely actually forgot anything, and he would often be reminded of his actions when later lessons would take an unexpected and often humiliating turn. He smiled as he recalled the last instance, having to suddenly begin deflecting rocks that hurled themselves at him as had attempted to meditate on one hand.

As he straightened his seated posture and refocused, he assured himself that it had been the right move. Had his mind not been stretched out as far as his reach would allow, he would not have noticed the surge of terror out in the lowlands, isolated from the local ports where they had hoped to find news of the smugglers. Master Tenei had suggested that he had felt the the shudder of fear that had gone through the slaves upon being herded onto their transport. Of course, by the time the Jedi had made their way to the plains, whatever ship or slaves had been there were gone, but with persistence, they had found an isolated local farmer who had confirmed regular landings of a single freighter out in a shallow valley, southeast of the mountains. After a short reconnaissance, they uncovered a hidden refueling station. The fear of many permeated the valley floor, and they knew they could count on the smugglers' return to the same spot. They had needed to wait only a few days before Master Tenei sensed that the freighter would return, and they had settled in to catch the smugglers in the act.

Drawing his robes tighter around him, Bor'om suppressed a twinge of anger that disturbed his meditation, reasoning that it originated from the feelings that this valley had seen and still held, like a cup overfilled with mist. This was why Master Tenei cautioned him against such broad empathic meditation; it opened the door for foreign and insidious feelings that were not one's own to enter, and take root. But Bor'om understood the danger, and the origin of these feelings, and carefully separated them from his own. True, the slaving smugglers were reprehensible in the extreme, and should face justice, but he didn't harbor any personal hatred towards them. He focused instead on their surroundings, trying to absorb as many details as he could; anything that might suggest the smuggler crew's habits or the state of the slaves while on the planet. He was tempted to turn his mind toward battle meditation, but he knew Master Tenei would not approve. Doing so would demonstrate an eagerness toward conflict unbecoming of a Jedi. Unless the smuggler crew was particularly large, they would realize how outmatched they would be in a battle, and surrender. Among such faithless criminals, it was better to live to steal another day.


	3. Chapter 2

With his natural senses stretched out by the Force, Bor'om finally felt something; the familiar sense of fear that laced the valley floor was descending again toward the planet. Breaking his meditative state, he plucked his comlink unit from his belt.

"Master."

The response was immediate.

"I felt it, too, apprentice. Stand by, allow them to land and wait for my signal. If these slavers are smart, they will capitulate quickly and without violence. In the meantime, prepare a message for the Council.

Bor'om nodded, "Yes, Master."

Eyes turned toward the starry sky, Bor'om recalibrated his comlink to record and it chirped to inform him that it was ready.

"Masters, Padawan Bor'om reporting, accompanied by my Master, Knight Tenei. We have made progress tracking the disappeared settlers from the Uztecka System. The slavers have been hiring a crew of smugglers to transport the settlers to their final destination. We've located a private refueling depot they have along their route in the Terical System and are about to make contact."

There was a distant concussive thud, and Bor'om paused, turning to see the source. High above them a ship had entered the atmosphere and was arching across the sky toward the basin. Bor'om lifted the comlink back to his lips.

"We see them now. If all goes well we will submit our final report before long."

Ending the message and stowing his comlink, Bor'om resumed his kneeling position, and mediation. Reaching out with his feelings, the fear emanating from the approaching cargo ship became more pronounced than ever, but alongside it he could feel the cocktail of anxiousness, arrogance and malicious intent that originated from the ship's crew. In his mind's eye, he could sense his master descending toward the grassy plot where the ship would land. She slipped into the cover of a ground-clinging shrub as it came low over the rim of the valley with a tinny roar and set down, hydraulics venting all along its underside as the engines were cut. It was a wide, squat ship with a dark hull and a narrow silhouette from the sides, probably of Corellian make, though decidedly larger than most of the popular Corellian models.

Bor'om got to his feet, watching the boarding ramp descend with his own eyes, several shadows already stretched over it. The crew who owned them scampered out and set to uncovering their hidden supplies and fuel, and connecting them to the ship. Bor'om counted seven of them and it was likely that there were at least that many more still on board. One simply stood watch at the foot of the boarding ramp, a blocky looking repeating blaster held loosely in his hands, and Bor'om could see blasters hanging from the shoulders or backs of each of the others, prompting him to frown. He had never encountered this many armed adversaries before. But he knew Master Tenei wouldn't engage unless necessary, and not until the ship was sufficiently tethered, leaving its crew at their most vulnerable.

His belt chirped and Bor'om realized that Master Tenei had activated her comlink, but said nothing. Apparently she anticipated boarding the freighter, and he was meant to hear anything that was said. Back down in the valley he saw her leap almost straight up, propelled by the Force, and arch gracefully down to land beside the guard at the boarding ramp. The comlink transmitted a brief grunt of indignant surprise before his master's voice cut in.

"You have seen nothing."

The voice that replied spoke in a rasping language Bor'om was unfamiliar with, but bore the unmistakeable near monotone of one who had succumbed to the mind trick, and a second later Master Tenei had ascended into the ship, the remaining crew outside oblivious to her passing. Bor'om could not shake the anxiety that fell over him at this additional obstacle. If his master needed him, it would be that much harder to reach her. But before he could begin to dwell on this concern, new voices came from the comlink.

"Hoy, how'd you get in-"

"You will take me to the captain of this ship."

It was another voice that answered, in broken Basic.

"We take you to d'ship cap'tin."

For several moments the only sound was then clatter of booted feet, presumably while Tenei was led through the ship. Bor'om was relieved to note that the bridge was facing his position, the stronger light from a corridor behind it spilling into the more dimly lit room. He could barely make out a figure there, behind the console, and as he did the corridor light was obscured by the appearance of three people in the doorway. They stopped, and so did the sounds from the comlink. Bor'om saw the figure at the console get up.

"What in the vacuum of the Void is the meaning of this, you slime sucking fools? Did you just bring a Jedi on to my ship?"

There was the reticent grunt of an excuse about to be offered, but Master Tenei intervened.

"Captain, allow me to introduce myself. I am Neah Tenei, Jedi Knight, as you have observed. We have been tracking your activities for some time, captain. As I'm sure you are aware, slaving is a crime in the Republic. You and your crew are to stand down at once. Republic authorities will soon be dispatched to take you into custody."

"You pretentious Republic dog," the voice replied, layered with disgust and anger, "You think this is some shallow slaving ring? You just dropped into a furnace and don't know it yet. Our people don't tolerate delays, much less failure. Every cutthroat on this ship would sooner die fighting tooth and claw against the Republic than await what would come for us in a cell."

"I understand, Captain, you fear your superiors. But with your cooperation we c-"

"You can what, Jedi? Protect us? They spoke truly of your arrogance. You won't be able to save yourselves, let alone anyone else."

It was then that Bor'om noticed it; so fixed was he on the conversation on the bridge of the freighter that he had not distinguished the grim intent in the distance until it was too late. Wheeling around he could barely make out the fast approaching silhouettes with his enhanced senses, but a moment later they made themselves known by the stuttering flashes of laser cannon fire. The sound of the shots reached him just as the bolts streaked down into the valley, tearing up the impromptu landing pad, heedless of the crewmen still outside. Needing no clearer signal, Bor'om gathered the Force around him and streaked down the hillside with unnatural speed.

"Hang on, Master," he breathed.

As if in response, the slaver captain's voice came through the comlink, laughing deliriously.

"Well, Jedi, it looks as if the Court has chosen to offer us the mercy of a quick death. It would be ungrateful of me not to do my best to speed yours along!"

Moving as fast as he was, Bor'om couldn't clearly see the bridge of the freighter, but he made out the flash of red and blue that accompanied the sound of a blaster firing and the ignition of a lightsaber.


	4. Chapter 3

As he ran, Bor'om shed his robe. He could ill-afford to have the garment trip him up at a time like this. The attacking starfighters strafed low overhead, firing as they went. The impact blasts were deafening, but their first pass missed the freighter. The tumult made it impossible to hear anything from his comlink, causing anxious sweat to bead on his forehead. He managed to clear the distance to the ship without being noticed; the surviving handful of smugglers on the ground were much too preoccupied with escaping another pass from the fighters. The one guarding the boarding ramp, though, had remained, and was shouting and gesturing toward the ship, trying to get the others on board. He spotted the distorted figure of the sprinting Jedi, and found a target for his frustration. Leveling the heavy blaster, he opened fire.

Bor'om redirected his concentration, abandoning his enhanced speed to have time to sense where the blaster bolts would move. The leather grip of his weapon came flying to his hand and he ignited the emerald blade in time to deflect two of the shots safely away.

Reaching further into the future, he sent a third bolt back into the smuggler's chest. He collapsed out of Bor'om's path, and the Padawan sprinted up the ramp into the ship. The lights flickered in the hall as the ship was rattled by blasts from the fighters. The smell of something burning filled the corridors. This ship wouldn't be able to take much punishment while grounded. As he steadied himself he heard a crackle from his comlink.

"Bor'om, do you copy?"

He fumbled with the device in his hurry to answer, but brought it quickly up.

"Master, I'm here!"

"Listen closely; we have to alert the Council. Use the freighter's comms array, and then make your way to the cargo hold. The captives are here, and we haven't much time."

Bor'om ran further into the ship, calling into his commlink as he ran, "I'll be there shortly, Master." Moments later he came to the cockpit doorway, where the still form of what must have been the captain laid halfway into the corridor. Bor'om leapt over him, noting the smoking gash across the dead man's chest, and the faint scent of charred flesh. He came to a stop at the ship's controls, mentally grateful for the simple Corellian design. His fingers flicked across the console, and an electronic whine alerted him that it was ready. He plugged his comlink into the console and it began relaying his earlier message even as he transmitted the new one.

"Masters, we've come under attack. Whoever hired these slavers is trying to destroy us all to cover their tracks. Master Tenei and I are tryi—" The freighter shook violently under a hit from the fighters' laser cannons. Bor'om steadied himself on the console, manipulating the controls as he went on, "We're trying to rescue their captives, but we won't be in any condition to track our attackers if we succeed. Please, send support!" He failed to keep the edge of panic out of his voice as he snatched his comlink and made for the cargo hold.

At the end of the hall ahead of him he heard cries of distress and soon emerged onto a gantry in the cargo hold. He dropped the relatively short distance to the main floor of the hold and saw, tucked against the walls below the gantry, cage after cage, each about the size of a simple starship's cabin and each filled with people. They were of several different species, and in varying conditions, but none looked particularly healthy. Many were whimpering or screaming aloud as the freighter shuddered under laser cannon impacts.

"Bor'om!" His attention snapped to his master, at the end of the hold, working at the door controls.

"What's the problem, Master?" He nodded his head toward the cages.

"Ultrachrome." She said quickly, not looking up, "It'll resist any blow from a blaster or saber, but trying to slice it can cause the entire structure to melt…"

"Right onto the captives."

"Exactly. There's not much time."

"I've rerouted all the ships power to the deflectors," he said, earning an appreciative glance from his master, "but they won't endure much more." The cargo bay doors groaned and began to open, a ramp descending below them, and Master Tenei stepped back toward the cages.

"We'll use the Force. Together, we can open them." She closed her eyes and Bor'om stood beside her, and they reached out with their minds, probing the locking mechanisms on the cages.

"I think...I think I see how to open them, Master," he said, eyes shut tight and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Follow that instinct, Bor'om," Throughout the cargo hold, latches to the cages began to snap open, the doors swinging free. The panicked captives began helping each other down through the bay opening, but not all the cages had opened, "Good, that's almost— "

An explosion ripped through the freighter, a fireball blossoming from the main corridor into the cargo hold, throwing prisoners and Jedi alike to the floor. Bor'om's head struck the nearest cage, and everything went dark.

* * *

"Good, that's almost—"

"Pardon, Professor. A moment of your time?"

A young Bor'om, fresh from his Gathering, looked up from the assortment of parts he was trying to compose into a lightsaber, to see who had called Professor Huyang's attention. It was a robed Togruta woman, accompanied by a Duros male; two of the three Knights who had overseen the Gathering, looking for prospective Padawans. It had made for a nerve wracking experience, knowing that if they proved themselves, they could be chosen. Bor'om had felt that he'd represented himself fairly well. He was sure he was ready to become an apprentice. He could show it now! Returning his focus to his saber parts, he closed his eyes and reached out with the Force. The pieces before him twitched and vibrated, then rose slowly into the air, a shining green crystal at their center. One by one, the parts oriented themselves, lining up with one another. Then, all at once, they flew together, snapping into the distinctive form of a hilt. Bor'om's eyes snapped open and the completed hilt descended into his open hand. It felt perfect. He looked it over, end-to-end, hefting its weight, relishing the chilly, metallic finish. Finally, tentatively, he pressed the activation stud...but got only a quiet fizzle in response. He pressed it again, but it only made the fizzling stop. Puzzled and disappointed he looked toward the Knights, deep in conversation with Professor Huyang. He'd wanted to show off a completed saber. After a moment's thought, he perked up. If he couldn't demonstrate his skill with the Force, he could demonstrate his humility. Rising from the workbench, he crossed over to the group of superiors, testing his saber as he went.

"Professor?" He began as he walked, "I thought I followed the instructions exactly, but it won't seem to ignite," Huyang and the Togruta Knight turned toward him to see the problem, "It only fizzles."

"Fizzles?" The apertures of the droid instructor's photoreceptors widened, "You've inverted the emitter matrix, child! Turn it off!"

Bor'om looked confusedly at the sparking hilt in his hand.

"No time!" Shouted the Togruta Knight, hand shooting toward the initiate. The hilt zipped out of Bor'om's hand into hers, and she sent it hurtling down the corridor behind them. A moment later it detonated spectacularly, the blast momentarily shaking the ship. It seemed so loud. Some of the bulkhead plating appeared to have buckled and loosened, but other than some scorched wiring there was no significant damage.

" _Thank you_ , master Tenei. As for you, young Bor'om…" Huyang launched into a lecture, but Bor'om's attention was on the Knight, Tenei, with a mixture of awe and apprehension. When she turned to look back at him he saw, at first, the reproach he had expected to see. It stung, but he knew it was justified. But slowly, her expression softened and she smiled at the embarrassed youth, "...and _please_ follow the diagrams," Huyang finished. Bor'om bowed deferentially, plaintively, and turned to go back to the work bench.

"Bor'om," came a soft voice, close behind him. He whipped around and Knight Tenei was there. She held out her open hand, where sat his green crystal, "You'll need this, hm? Remember, young one, your setbacks will teach you how to stay on your feet…"

* * *

"...on your feet!"

His vision was a confused jumble of darkness against stabbing flashes of light. The familiar voice rang in his ears again.

"Bor'om, you have to get up!"

He blinked and his vision swam, and cleared. It appeared that the ship's systems had been knocked out, including the lights. Instead, the hold was eerily illuminated by fire and smoke, and the hull had broken completely open in a couple of places, exposing the hold to the night sky. Bor'om pushed himself up on his hands, looking around. Several meters away, Neah Tenei was propped up against the hold door controls, gingerly nursing an oozing side wound. He was about to cry out, to push himself up and go to her aid, but she cut him off with a look bearing the weight of her will in the Force. His eyes widened, surprised at the vigor of her imprint. She pointed. There were two cages still locked shut, occupants crying in terror, unable even to touch the bars as the surrounding fire continued to heat the metal.

"We have to hurry," his master urged, voice hoarse, "the fire threatens to collapse the cages on them."

Bor'om glanced at the locks. They had clearly been fried in the blast. He felt the chill of despair in his gut, and looked back to his master, but her face was more resolute than ever as she uttered only two words.

"The Force."

He closed his eyes, reaching out. He felt the prisoners, their anguish. He felt his master, and her resolve. He felt the menace of the pilots above them, determined to destroy the freighter and the Jedi with it. But he also felt a twinge of their fear, fear of failure. He began to visualize the bars of the cage. And somewhere, deep in the hearts of the prisoners, he saw a glimmer of hope. He willed the bars to bend, and they started to obey. They could do this! They could escape! Then, a wave of sadness washed over him. Was it the captives? His eyes opened, but they were looking on at him with hesitant faith. Then who? He looked at his master. She had turned away to look through a smoldering crack in the hull, out at the night, where she could see the fighters closing in one more time. All Bor'om saw was a great shard of metal protruding from her back, opposite the wound he'd seen on her front. His focus faltered, and she turned again to face him, the sadness apparent in her face.

"Mas—!"

With a small gesture she sent him hurtling out through the open hold doors into the night, a number of supply crates collapsing on top of him as he landed. No sooner had he stopped tumbling then he heard the screech of blaster cannon fire, and was deafened by another explosion. He tumbled away again amid the supply crates, barely aware of the hot shrapnel showering the ground around him. He finally stopped moving, but then the pain hit him like an out-of-control speeder, and in moments he was unconscious again.


	5. Chapter 4

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

 _No, not again. Not already._ Bor'om tried to relax, willing himself to remain unconscious. But the incessant clanging had already started to aggravate the throbbing buzz between his eyes. The pain continued to build as the clanging got louder. Soon would come—

"Riiiiise and shine, _Jedi_ ," Like clockwork. The grating, taunting voice seemed to carry the essence of its owner as it reached Bor'om; no sooner did the words end then the pungent smell of strong drink and clothes that probably hadn't been cleaned since leaving the factory wreathed his head. He coughed, body arching beneath the cuffs that kept him suspended above the floor of his cell, his bare feet barely able to brush it.

"Feeling hungry?"

Grimy eyelids cracking open, Bor'om silently met the yellow eyed gaze on the other side of the bars. The grizzled human man's face stretched into a crude approximation of a smile.

"Still ornery, eh? Oooh, y'don't have to put on such a front with old Anchor. I'm you're only friend here, I am," the smile was replaced by a pained look that failed to hide the man's glee, "I just want you to be ready for another long, long day of torture, and screamin'."

Bor'om blinked blearily, while Anchor looked furtively back down the dingy corridor behind him.

"I mean," the man went on a hushed tone, "who else is comin' all the way down here to bring you food? C'mon, up and at 'em."

"Wai—!" Flailing to get his feet under him in time, Bor'om collapsed on the floor in a heap as Anchor slapped a button on the wall that slackened the chains. Bor'om didn't move right away. The frigid stone floor was almost welcome relief to his sore body. But a moment later the cell bars receded into the ground, and he sat up, pushing himself away from the doorway. Anchor chortled.

"Unaud must have done a number on you yesterday."

Bor'om tried to remember it, but he couldn't recall anything concrete. Just impressions of whips and knives and electrodes. It had only been three, maybe four days. Or five? He wasn't sure. And he wasn't sure how much more could he could take. He had at least learned that he was being held in an underground complex, hidden beneath the very landing pad he and his master had tried to capture. His stomach twisted at the thought of Neah's fate. And what he'd learned would mean nothing if he died here.

Anchor moved into the cell, crouching no more than a meter away, and produced a metal tray he had held behind his back.

"Special meal today. Maybe Unaud means to have done with you."

The tray held a pile of shredded, burnt looking meat, and a gray crust that might have been bread. The contents spread across the tray as it clattered in the floor. Anchor stood up and went to lean against the inside of the cell door. Bor'om pulled the tray back with him and sat against the far wall, then picked tentatively at the meat. It smelled about as charred as it looked. Still, he popped it into his mouth and started to eat.

"'At's right. Gotta keep up your strength. And what better meal, eh?" Anchor said, smiling evilly, "Way I hear it, they recovered the meat from that old smuggler freighter just yesterday." Bor'om froze. "Only two people in the whole complex get to taste it. You and the cook. Shistavanen, he is. Apparently has a taste for Togruta flesh, even burned," Bor'om's hands shook, his mouth hung open as Anchor went on nonchalantly, "Oh, nearly forgot. He told me to offer you this, to clean your teeth, he said," the jailer pulled something from his pocket and held it out; a bone, its ends reduced to jagged edges by sharp teeth, "'Course I told him humans don't go in for that kind of thing, but, well, he insisted."

Bor'om leaned forward and wretched, while Anchor leaned back and laughed.

"Aahahahaha! Stroke of genius! Hahaha! Where does Unaud come with it?"

Spitting out the bile, Bor'om found his voice, "You...are monsters."

Anchor only laughed harder.

The laughing pounded in Bor'om's head, and his heart pounded in his chest. His body still shook, but the horror had passed. Now it was rage. With a hoarse growl he charged the jailer. Anchor's laughter was replaced by a snarl as he reached to slap the button that would retract the chains. But before he could touch it he was bodily dragged into the cell by unseen hands. He and the young Jedi collided in the air, and Bor'om seemed almost as surprised as Anchor when he toppled the man over, pinning him by the chest. But he recovered quickly and began using his chains to beat his tormentor into submission. The heavier man found himself struggling to keep up with Bor'om's attacks.

"How're you—? The torture should have—!" Anchor managed between blows.

"It's like you said, old man," Bor'om snarled. "I have to keep up my strength."

Anchor tried to jab the youth from behind with the jagged bone, but Bor'om deftly avoided it, caught the back of Anchor's hand and pushed it down, ramming the bone into Anchor's throat. The dying man's face flashed from anger to panic as he gurgled for breath, and then at last he was still. Bor'om got to his feet, pulling the bone with him. He stood for a moment, regarding the bloody end of it.

"You saved me again, Master," he rasped, voice barely a whisper, "I will see them pay. I'll bring you home."

Reaching down he tugged Anchor's keys from his belt and unlocked his shackles, wincing as cool air passed over the raw flesh for the first time in days. Retrieving Anchor's blaster pistol from it's holster, Bor'om stumbled doggedly down the corridor, further into the complex.


	6. Chapter 5

The pale, limestone tunnels of the complex seemed to double back and recross at every turn. Every intersection looked the same. The damp, musty walls seemed anxious to press in; seal him there forever. It didn't help that it seemed as though most of the facility was holding cells. Bor'om paused at another corner, wondering if the maze of halls was just to confuse prisoners attempting to escape. He set his teeth and turned to the right. If they thought that was enough, they had never tried to hold a Jedi. Most of the cells were empty, and none of the occupied ones seemed to hold sentient species. Bor'om smiled. At the very least the battle on the landing pad had made sure they were short on slaves to fill their prison. But then he frowned, remembering the scene. Had any of the abducted settlers even escaped? Or had they all been blasted by the fighters as they tried to escape? Had everything that had happened—had they done more harm than good? His frown deepened; he needed his wits about him. This was a bad time to be dwelling on what went wrong.

At the end of another corridor, Bor'om began to hear voices from somewhere up ahead. Easing around the corner, he found the hall unoccupied, but could see an open doorway about halfway along. The voices were echoing through the opening. Bor'om crossed to the same side of the hall as the door and crept along the wall. Though his feet were stiff from the cold of the bare floor, he appreciated being able to move in silence. His knuckles grew pale as he squeezed the blaster's grip.

" —be weeks, months maybe, before we can bring in another shipment. Smuggler's who'll take live cargo aren't cheap, either," a gravelly voice was saying.

"You say that like the Court will hear excuses," replied an atonal, electronically modulated voice, "They'll have their slaves even if it means slapping shock collars on our necks."

There was grunt of barely hidden distress in response.

"What's taking Anchor so long?" Gravelly changed the topic.

Bor'om's grip on his weapons redoubled.

"Probably entertaining himself. He's always wanted Unaud's job," came the reply.

"He better wise up," Gravelly mused, "If Unaud finds out, he'll be in a cage himself."

"Like I said, unless we get another shipment moving, we'll all be in cages. Wasted enough time. We've got calls to make."

Reaching out, Bor'om envisioned the room and its occupants, moving toward him. With the element of surprise, he could end it quickly. Breathing in sharply he wheeled into the doorway. A pale, hunched man in scuffed green armor stood just meters in front of him, roughly in the center of some sort of common room with a handful of tables and chairs, and at his shoulder, a dark skinned cyborg with prominent jaw and neck enhancements. The pale man barely had time to register surprise as Bor'om pulled the trigger. The blaster bolt punched a blackened hole into the chest of the man's armor and he collapsed back onto his companion.

Bor'om tried to bring the blaster quickly to bear against the cyborg, but he hadn't anticipated the kick of the weapon, and his second shot streaked over his targets shoulder as the cyborg dived into cover behind a table. With a crackling snarl the cyborg drew a long barreled pistol and leveled it at the Padawan. Bor'om swung back behind the door frame as blaster bolts pelted through the opening. He tried to calm himself, to center. Briefly he had a premonition of the cyborg calling for help using his cybernetics. Bor'om's chances of escaping would evaporate if the whole compound came down on him. Calling on what little focus he had, he lowered himself and charged through the door with preternatural speed. Crashing into the side of a table, he and the cyborg both realized at the same time that they were looking right at each other. This time Bor'om was faster, leveling the pistol and sending a blaster bolt clean through the cyborg's head. Both the Jedi and the lifeless cyborg slumped to the floor, Bor'om only faintly aware of the hissing sound left by the blaster marks scattered through the room.

For several seconds Bor'om just lay there, panting. When the pounding in his ears had receded a little he pushed himself to his feet.

"We made it," he whispered hoarsely, barely aware of his own words. He bent over the pale man and unbuckled his holster. He had to tighten it quite a bit to fit, but when it was comfortable he wedged the bloody bone into the belt and drew the other pistol. He hadn't gone two steps toward the opposite door when he felt a familiar, loathsome presence, and heard a familiar voice echo through from the exterior hall.

"I swear, if one of you shot someone over another game of pazaak, I will end you all."

Bor'om's stomach turned as images of crackling whips, and the sounds of his own screams flashed through his mind. He leveled the blasters at the open door, hands shaking. He could see, moments ahead, the silhouette stepping into sight, himself, pulling the triggers again and again, and the charred, smoking figure that would be left behind. He tried to reign in the fury coursing in his veins, but not all of it was his. Bor'om could no longer control his empathic reach, and was increasingly losing track of himself amid the waves of intention and emotion that flowed through the base. He gritted his teeth as the figure who owned the voice filled the doorway. It was a pale, wiry man clad in a black tunic and fitted trousers of the same material, and polished black boots. Long, gray dreadlocks hung down past his armpits, and his face was covered with pockmarks and thin scars. His torturer. Unaud. The annoyed expression that had been on his face was immediately replaced by shock. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, Bor'om's every instinct screaming to shoot. He started to believe he could resist the urge, but then the shock began to fade from Unaud's face, slowly replaced by a smug grin.

"Well—" he began, only to be promptly interrupted by the twang of a blaster bolt going through his right leg, "AAAGH!" Unaud crumpled, gripping his leg. When he looked up, Bor'om was there, holding the still smoking blaster over his head. Grimacing, Unaud held up a plaintive hand.

"Don't do anything stupid, boy! Think about this!" He exclaimed, gripping his leg, "You're going to try take on this whole facility alone?" He paused, grunting against the pain of his injury, "Say you get out, where can you go in your condition? But if you had help…someone who knows the way out, someone with authority…"

"Not even bleeding to death and with no other choice would I accept your help," Bor'om growled.

Unaud's face contorted into a mask of hatred, "Cruach will scour the core worlds, and leave your beloved Order in ashes! The Court will roll across the st—" Bor'om lunged down, slamming a knee down on Unaud's right arm and jamming the blaster he held in his left hand between Unaud's teeth. The barrel of the second blaster he put in the crook of Unaud's left elbow.

"You deserve oblivion for what you did to my master," Bor'om hissed between his teeth.

Unaud gurgled defiantly, but concern flashed in his eyes.

For a moment Bor'om relished Unaud's fear, but then he seemed to compose himself, "Fortunately for you, I believed in her and she believed in our mission, which I intend to finish." Unaud's arm made a slight movement, and Bor'om fired the blaster into his elbow.

"No calling for help," he said evenly over Unaud's muffled cry, "I hope for your sake that we never meet again," Keeping the man gagged with the blaster barrel, Bor'om rose, lowered the second blaster, and shot him through the knee and the other elbow. Unaud's eyes widened, but he made no sound…and then, it seemed, the pain overwhelmed him and he passed out. Straightening up, Bor'om stood and stared at him for several moments. How easy it would be to take revenge. But that wasn't the path his master had set him on. Stepping over the unconscious man, he passed into the opposite hall and pressed on.

As he moved through the facility, he encountered a number of small, isolated rooms, but also several larger rooms and branching corridors, where more mercenary-looking personnel loitered. There were several close calls, but he managed to slip by each situation undetected. As he rounded another corner, he began to smell something smoky in the air. He slowed as the hall became hazier, and he started to hear the sounds of light machinery and he saw the hall end with an open doorway. The light from the other side was dim and pulsed weakly. Bor'om slipped quietly through the doorway, and found himself in a large, low ceilinged room. He sniffed at the unpleasant, burned and filthy smell. Like something rotting in the sun. The wall to his right was lined with shelves, stocked with rations and supplies. On the left, built into the wall was a long, red-hot element about waist high. This seemed to be the source of the light, and the smell. A chill rolled up his spine.

Suddenly an indistinct shape arched into his vision and slapped wetly against the heating element, and began to sizzle. Bor'om whirled around only to see a massive, hairy, and clawed hand filling his vision. He felt it close tight around his neck and lift him bodily off the floor. A long face covered in fur emerged from the shadows, a bored look in its eyes as the Shistavanen carried him toward the cooking element.

"I don't imagine they sent you up here for cooking," said the Shistavanen slowly, revealing a mouth full of long, yellow teeth, "But I'm sure they won't mind if I eat you all the same."

Struggling to breath, Bor'om craned his head and saw the raw meat already blackening on the heater, as the Shistavanen growled in his ear.

"Welcome to the kitchen."


	7. Chapter 6

As he was dragged across the room, Bor'om struggled to keep his airway open, using one hand to support his weight, while the other sought for the blaster still holstered at his side. Finally he felt his hand close around the grip and he tugged it free. No sooner had he done so than the Shistavanen's closed fist struck him full in the face. Lights popped before his eyes, and the blaster clattered across the floor. Both hands went to the cook's wrist as Bor'om struggled to hold himself up so he could breathe.

"Don't waste your effort," the furred sentient growled shortly, stopping in front of the heating element, "The administrator will thank me for getting you out of his hair. It's no secret that Unaud's been looking for a reason to bury you. Had to keep you alive in case more Jedi came. But it looks like the Senate's leash is too tight for that, hahaha." The gruff chuckle gave Bor'om a faceful of the cook's awful breath, but he remained defiant.

"Unaud won't be able—to save you from me," he managed to choke out.

The Shistavanen paused.

"Already got to the administrator, have you? Guess he won't be sending for any more fancy dishes, then. He always appreciated my work. Not like the rest of these louts. All the more reason to eat you alive," and with that he slammed the human down onto the cooking element by his shoulders. A moment later, he felt the heat. A scream forced its way out of his throat as his skin was seared through the tattered material of his tunic, and he writhed, trying to pull away from the burning metal.

"Try not to struggle. You're stringy enough without making the meat all tough," the cook advised, the boredom returning to his voice.

Bor'om managed to stop flailing by digging his fingers into the cook's arm, though if the Shistavanen felt it, he gave no sign. As Bor'om screamed himself hoarse, he reached out with his mind for anything that might help. But it was so hard to focus on anything except the burning. He knew his own flesh would be blackening like the slab of meat cooking next to him…the slab! Mustering all his strength and fueled by a bellow of both rage and pain, he sent the charred cut of meat flying into the cook's face. It slapped across the humanoid's eyes and hissed as it burned. The Shistavanen recoiled with a howl of pain, releasing Bor'om and clawing at his face to dislodge hot grease and bubbling fat.

Bor'om managed to quickly right himself. There was no immediate relief from the searing sensation that was his back and shoulders, but with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he maintained his senses, and looking around, spotted his captured blasters. He called both to his hands, and they responded instantly. Catching the grips, he leveled them at the enraged cook and opened fire. This time, he didn't restrain himself, pulling the triggers over and over. The Shistavanen endured several shots to the body, swinging an arm blindly as he continued trying to relieve his eyes, but after a few more blasts the cook collapsed and lay still.

Gasping and gritting his teeth against the hissing coming from his back, Bor'om stumbled around the room, trying to find anything that could dull the pain. He quickly found that there was nothing. He suddenly became aware of a ringing in his ears, and had the impression that it came from his side. He looked down, but saw only the bone, still jammed in the belt. His master…she had taught him how to handle this; the Force could dull the pain, keep him conscious, keep him alive. He stood still, trying not to aggravate the wounds any more, and focused on them. Quieting his mind, he began to quell the pain and inflammation. The stinging and throbbing slowly faded, and it took all his concentration to keep it that way. But after a couple of long, tense minutes, he had it more or less under control.

"Thank you, Master," he whispered, wiping the sweat and grime and tears from his face. It made little difference as he continued to sweat from the exertion. Giving himself a moment to rest, he finally found enough strength to continue. Slowly, tentatively, he moved, walking shakily toward the door in the other corner of the room. The corridor outside was still dim, but the light grew stronger as he moved away from the kitchen. The smell still followed him, and he wondered if his nostrils would ever stop burning. But he couldn't let it distract him. This corridor didn't turn at all, and he noticed that there weren't any doors in the walls. Was he close to an exit? Or was this going to lead him to a dead end? He doubted he'd be able to make it back through the complex a second time. The light finally shone on a door at the end of the corridor. Leaning against the frame, Bor'om thumbed the most likely button, and the door hissed open.

Stepping through, he found himself in well furnished living quarters. Some of the interior walls were actual metal plating. They were all still bare, yet even the stone had been painted white to look less dingy. Immediately in front of him was a long table covered with an assortment of bowls and plates, piled with exotic looking foods. To the right was what looked like small study, with a desk and a terminal, and to the left he saw what looked like a washroom. He lurched toward it, but paused as something glinted in the corner of his eye.

Turning around, he stepped toward the study. There on the other side of the terminal, laying in a tray of some kind of silvery solution, was a familiar weapon. The once smooth, reflective hilt was now pitted and scarred, the emitter cracked clean through its windows in a couple of places.

"Master," Bor'om said haltingly, reaching out and plucking it with care from the silvery bath, "Your lightsaber."

As the liquid continued to drip from the hilt, Bor'om tentatively thumbed the activator, heart leaping with hope to see that blue blade again. But the hilt produced only a small spark, and then refused to respond further. Eyes never leaving the saber, Bor'om crossed over to the bathroom in a daze. He managed to pull his attention away from it once inside, taking stock of the room.

Inside was a sonics shower, several small containers, a sink and a mirrored cabinet. Hanging Neah's saber carefully on his looted holster, Bor'om crouched gingerly and began rifling through the containers, searching for anything he could use on his back, and moaned with relief when he discovered a sealed box of bacta bandages. He quickly tore it open, and went to the mirror, turning his back to it. Reinforcing his focus on his injuries, he slowly began to peel off the shredded tunic. Unaud's whip had done some good in that regard, as many of the hanging strips had managed to keep from getting grilled into his back. When the last of the tunic was off, Bor'om examined the wound in the mirror. It was a splotchy mass of shining black and red that covered almost every inch of skin from his shoulders to the small of his back. Then he caught sight of his face.

Turning slowly on the spot, he stared at himself. The gaunt face, framed by matted, damp hair, was barely recognizable to him. A shaky hand passed across the shadows under his eyes. Almost of it's own accord, his hand drew the damaged lightsaber again, and he looked several times between it and his own haggard reflection. Finally, he tightened his fist around the hilt, and set his jaw. After all that had happened, nothing was going to stop him from completing this mission. Reholstering the saber, he pulled the first of the bandages from the kit.

Trying to reach behind himself to apply it was painful, but as soon as the bandage was in place, he started to feel the numbing and soothing effects of the bacta. He worked feverishly, sometimes having to simply toss the bandage on over his shoulder when he couldn't quite reach a spot. He had only half finished, with a bandage raised to go across his other shoulder, when he started to hear shouts.

Dropping the bandage, he darted into the entryway. Down the corridor, somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, he could hear the ruckus, and it was moving quickly his way. He pivoted on the spot. This was it; if he didn't get out now, he was done for. He noticed for the first time the recessed plating in the wall behind the table. It had to be an opening! He skirted the table and began to run his hand along the gap in the metal plates, but they didn't budge. He searched along the wall to each side for a button, but it was perfectly smooth. Turning to look at the room again, he felt despair setting in. He grabbed a black robe hanging on the chair at the head of table, thinking maybe he could use it to hide, when the answer presented itself, right there at the head of the table where he stood; a small control panel built into one corner of the polished surface. Pressing the button closest to the wall, Bor'om was rewarded by a sudden hiss.

Whirling back to the wall, he saw the door-shaped panel recede and then rise out of site. On the other side was a simple lift pad. Bor'om lunged in and toggled the elevator to rise. It responded promptly, and not a moment too soon; he was sure he had caught a glimpse of shadows from down the corridor. Bor'om's eyes fixed on the growing light at the top of the shaft, until the brightness of the source made him turn away. Moments later, the lift stopped in a small, enclosed bay hardly large enough for two people. A door sprang open in front of Bor'om and he was hit by a gust of air. At first it felt frigid, and made his wounds sting, but after a small gasp, a grin spread across his face. It was real, fresh, surface air. Shrugging the robe onto his shoulders he stepped out of the shaft. It appeared the elevator was recessed into a rocky face along one of the valley walls. A thin band of green-barked trees stretched away to the left, and Bor'om hurried instinctively toward them. As he scanned the valley, he quickly spotted a dark mass five or six hundred meters back to the right; the husk of the destroyed freighter. The place of their failure. The sight of it helped him get his bearings, though, and from the treeline, he turned toward the nearest settlement and set off at an unsteady jog.


	8. Chapter 7

It was the cool air of a morning breeze, biting through the bandages, that woke him. Blearily opening his eyes, Bor'om's mind went immediately to suppressing the sensation of his burns. He didn't want another morning like the first. He groaned softly as he pushed himself up, and settled on his knees. The tall grass that surrounded him bent softly as the breeze picked up, and he felt like it was ushering him on. He couldn't delay. Hastily he pulled the dampened robe off the ground and draped it gingerly over his shoulders. He stood slowly, keeping low, and peered just over the top of the grass. The field stretched off in all directions; he had left the smugglers' valley far behind. Still he scanned in every direction; they had pursued him hard for the first few days after his escape, both on foot and on speeders. Laying out a few false trails had diverted them in all directions, but the bulk of the resistance still lay on the path he needed to follow: the shortest route to the nearest settlement. Taking time to skirt the many search parties along the way had slowed him down considerably, but the further he got, the fewer there were. He wondered if it was because they hadn't expected their prisoner to make it this far, or if they didn't want to risk exposure to the locals.

Once he was satisfied that there were no searchers nearby, he set off again. His gait was still a little unsteady, but now it was simply the result of fatigue rather than the lingering effects of torture. Chewing foraged roots while on the go had helped keep him moving, but done little to forestall hunger. He hoped not to need any more, though. Another day and a night, he estimated, and he would reach the small port he and his Master had investigated before finding the valley. There was something more, to the fatigue, though, something worrying. His consciousness felt drained, stretched; he hadn't been able to reign in his empathic senses since escaping his cell, and the overwhelming and dense mixture of emotions and instincts from countless sources weighed on him like a hydraulic press. It was like an open flood gate he just couldn't seal. He couldn't even tell how far he was reaching, and it was increasingly difficult to distinguish his own mental state from others. But he assured himself that if he could just make it back to the temple, it would be all right. Everything would.

Pushing through the grass at a steady pace, his movements and breathing became regular. He found he could avoid the tumult of emotional feedback by letting his mind wander, and he entered a sort of meditation as he ran. He concentrated on the moist, crisp smell of the grass, the seemingly individual wisps of wind that reached his face, and the subtle variations in the ground under his feet. Despite all that had happened, the rhythmic thud of his footfalls was no different now than it was on any of the worlds he had been to before.

* * *

He listened to the metal reverberate with each step as he rounded the palace hall at a run. Bor'om had expected to be more nervous on his first mission as a Padawan. But between Master Tenei's assurances and their meditations, he found himself strangely at peace. Turning the corner, he saw the infiltrator fleeing the other way, and surprised himself again by smiling. Reaching both outward and inward, he felt the Force bending around him and a moment later he was running twice as fast, gaining quickly on his target.

Expecting to see the assailant turn at the next corner, Bor'om was confused to see his target skid to a stop. All became clear a moment later when he heard his master's lightsaber ignite, and saw the blue glow it cast on the walls. Bor'om caught up, and once clear of the wall beside him, could see his teacher facing down the infiltrator. The figure, clad all in black wrappings, hesitated, trying to see a way out. Finding none, the figure lunged toward Bor'om, a pair of vibroknives appearing in its hands. Bor'om's heart caught in his throat as his reflexes kicked in, but in the next moment the assassin was lifted into the air and flung bodily against the wall, before slumping to the floor, the weapons in its hands clattering away. Bor'om had barely removed his lightsaber from his belt, but now looked numbly between the infiltrator and his master, who had hardly appeared to move. Suddenly the figure on the floor stirred, prompting Bor'om to hurriedly thumb the activation on his hilt, leveling the emerald blade at their quarry, but the assassin remained still.

"What now, Master?" Bor'om asked in a low voice, "Should this killer be repaid in kind?"

"No, Bor'om. We do not take the law into our own hands, and our responsibility is to the preservation of life, not the taking of it. We have prevented what would have been a bloody civil war, and completed our mission. The Soranins will handle matters from here."

The Padawan's brow furrowed, but he nodded. More footsteps rang down the hall behind his master, and he craned his neck to better see the palace guard in their glittering armor arrive, trailed by the gray-skinned Duke, still in his regal garb, despite the hour. A look of pure disgust spread on his face, accented by the fleshy tendrils that hung down by the sides of his mouth. Neah lowered her saber and addressed him.

"Your majesty, the culprit has been apprehended," she gestured at the crumpled form on the floor, "The law can take its course." The infiltrator stirred again, waking and looking weakly around. The guards immediately raised their weapons. The Duke drew his attention away from the assassin to give the Jedi an unfeeling look, followed after a moment by a pronounced sneer.

"Yes, Master Jedi," he said through the sneer, "The law." He gestured for his gaurds' attention, then pointed at the limp figure, "Shoot this traitor."

Neah barely had time to cry out in protest, and Bor'om simply gaped as the guards' weapons flashed, and a round of blue bolts perforated the assassin, the smoking body going limp once more.

"Duke Moreal!" Neah exclaimed, "That was murder! Your laws dictate the treatment of prison—"

"I _am_ the law here, Master Jedi," The Duke spoke over her, "And the execution of our laws is none of your concern. Your job was to prevent an assassination. You succeeded, now you may leave! If you have need to discuss the matter further, I suggest you speak to our Senator the next time you see him."

"You are trampling _Republic_ statute's, Moreal," She replied slowly, any pretense of respect gone. The Duke stared her down for a moment, and then took a step closer.

"Are you going to arrest me, Jedi?" He let the question hang in silence for several seconds, holding Neah's icy glare with his own, bored look. When she said nothing, he went on, "No, of course not. The Jedi are servants in the Republic and little more. A position so delicate," A small smile flashed across the Duke's face, "I can't help but be amused at how you all bend at every wind. Or perhaps even more amusing, that you continue to hold on, as though you serve the greater good. No, Jedi. You serve us," He finished sharply, pointing at himself, "Now be on your way. I'm sure your council has other errands for you."

After another heavy pause, Neah turned and set off down the hall, Bor'om following close behind.

"But...Master, surely—" Bor'om began as they strode down the corridor at Neah's long-legged pace.

"There is nothing more we can do, Padawan," She said, soft spoken, though he could sense her outrage. She was always careful to direct her feelings only at their sources. Bor'om knew better than to pry further, but he also knew his teacher owed him an explanation.

"Master I can accept what happened—" He started again. She stopped and turned to him, hand falling firmly on his shoulder.

"No, Bor'om." She said, a sense of urgency in her voice. He hadn't expected her to reprove him, but then, as she went on, he realized that she wasn't reproving, "Never accept that wrong is done in the galaxy. Doing so condemns us to tyranny, it enables the rise of people like Duke Moreal. We are protectors of the Republic, not its slaves. While there are legal limitations to our reach, a Jedi who thinks creatively will find alternatives for protecting." She began walking again, withdrawing a holodisc from her belt as she went, "Evidence of Moreal's corrupt dealings."

Bor'om's eyes widened, then narrowed again as he smiled mischievously, "And all that about not taking the law into our own hands?"

"We haven't," She answered with a shrug, "Our mandate was to prevent civil war. Preventing the assassination of the royal house is one way to do that, and preventing the system's leaders from taking advantage of its people is another."

"Will the Council see it that way?"

"The Council has entrusted the mission to us. Were the Duke to be arrested by the Jedi, he would try to implicate us for exposing him, and legal procedure against him would be bogged down so much that he would go unpunished. No, we will deliver this to the Senate through anonymous channels. His crimes will be brought to light by his own people."

"I'm impressed, Master."

"Don't be, Bor'om. I expect you to do the same."

* * *

He stumbled, hands spreading to catch himself, and fell on the ground. Shaking the ringing sensation out of his ears, he started to rise, only to hear voices in the distance. Crouching back down, he strained to hear where they were coming from. It sounded as though they were up ahead. Slowly, he peeked over the top of the grass. Not far off was a sparse stand of trees where the grass thinned, at the edge of which were parked a pair of speeder bikes. Bor'om could just barely make out the shadows moving between the trees; at least four of slavers were waiting there. It was the first time he'd come across any of them dismounted from their speeders. This was his chance to secure his escape. He drew one of the blasters he had gotten away with, trying to think how he would take on four smugglers at once, but glancing down, he saw the blaster shaking in his hand. Going in blaster's blazing might not be the best plan. Holstering the pistol, he turned away from the trees and headed off to the right, a plan taking shape in his mind.


	9. Chapter 8

"I told the old kung 'd keep quiet, but o'course 'e squeals anyway, and I gotta pop 'im!" Finished a wiry-looking Ubdurian, and he and his three companions burst into laughter.

"Tell 'em," hiccupped a dreadlocked human woman in full combat armor, slapping the helmet on her knee, "Tell 'em what happened after!" The Ubdurian flashed a grin with his enormous teeth.

"Well then the barkeep comes out, lookin' all—"

"Hoy," interrupted another, a Duros laden down with explosive ordinance. He sat straight up, all traces of mirth gone, and pointed past the trees. Smoke was curling up out of the grass some distance away. The one beside him, a bearded man in various black leathers, stood and raised a set of macrobinoculars to his face as the armored woman slipped on her helmet.

"Can't see anything," the bearded man concluded in a hoarse voice. The Ubdarian responded by firing off a few blaster shots at the spot where the smoke rose. When there seemed to be no response, the woman cut in.

"We better check it."

"Fine, you and Carm can go," the Ubdarian said, nodding toward the pillar of smoke, "Me and Kay'll watch the bikes."

The Duros and the woman made their way unhurriedly towards the source of the smoke. The Ubdarian and the bearded man were soon reclined against the nearby trees, watching the progress of their companions. They hadn't been at it long before the subtle hum of a power cell warming up sounded behind them. The Ubdarian groaned.

"Aw, for the love of—"

Setting the fire had been easy enough, though Bor'om had needed to cannibalize some parts from one of the blasters. The hard part had been doubling back around without being noticed. It seemed that the smoke had distracted them well enough, though he suffered a moment of panic as a blaster discharged several times. As he got closer he peeked over the top of the grass occasionally to gauge his progress, and theirs. Right as it seemed like the two sent to investigate the smoke were about to find it, he made his move.

Slipping into the thinner stretch of grass, he waited until he was right beside one of the bikes before powering up his remaining blaster. In the same movement, he jumped onto the bike and brought the engine up from its idle. He could already hear shouts just meters away; looking up, he caught sight of the Ubdarian and the human man stepping out from behind the trees, weapons ready.

One hand on the bike's throttle, Bor'om leveled the pistol and squeezed off a few shots, driving them back into cover. As soon as they dove out of sight, he fired into the chassis of the second bike, which quickly caught fire, before its repulsors failed and it collapsed to the ground. Bor'om's own bike gave a whine that told him the engine was ready, and he twisted the accelerator as hard as he could.

The bike almost rocketed out from under him, but he got both feet in the stirrups just in time. His blaster wasn't so lucky, and was torn from his grasp by the sudden acceleration. But he assured himself that he didn't have to worry about it. With the other bike crippled, he was finally, truly, free.

Gunning the bike at full throttle, he took a wide arc toward the settlement, on the off chance that other search parties still waited along the path, but even with the detour, the outlying buildings of the settlement came into view after a short ride. He abandoned the bike before getting there, heading in on foot.

With the sun high in the sky, the dusty streets were busy with people, and it was easy for him to blend in. He even traded the black robe he had been wearing for a loose gray shirt he found hanging on a line. Comfortable that he was less recognizable, he made his way toward the port. No sooner did he get within eyesight of the little spaceport than he saw a pair of figures that looked like they would be right at home among the slavers.

Everything about them, from their worn and well used gear to their heavy weapons separated them from the locals. He watched as they accosted several passing civilians, questioning and haranguing them before letting them go on their way. He was suddenly grateful he hadn't tried to ride the speeder into town. Bor'om had no doubt they were there to find him. Moving among the buildings to a better vantage point, he was able to see just three ships docked at the port; a couple of small transports and a freighter.

After several minutes of high-anxiety self debating, he decided to try the freighter. With the streets as busy as they were, it was fairly easy to get close to the platform, and once there, he walked purposefully passed the fueling crews and maintenance droids to the boarding ramp. Only as he set his foot down did he look back to see if he was being watched.

Across the way, the thugs were confronting another pair of locals. Letting out a sigh of relief, Bor'om ascended the steps into the freighter. He decided instead of hiding to meet the captain and ask openly for help, and so he made his way to the bridge and waited in the copilot's seat.

Only a few minutes later, a lithe alien with long green limbs, whose species he didn't recognize, appeared at the door, prompting Bor'om to get quickly to his feet. It paused at the sight of him, blinking a pair large gray eyes with star-shaped irises. After a moment it stepped into the room, proceeding toward the controls, speaking as it did so from a thin mouth set very low on its face.

"What are you doing on my ship, human?" It asked, to his great relief, in Basic.

"With your assistance, I'm escaping capture." He replied simply.

The alien settled into the pilot's seat, and looked at him, saying nothing for a while. Then finally, "Are you a criminal?"

"No," Bor'om answered quickly, "I had the misfortune of encountering slavers. They took me."

"Slavers, on Terical?" Another long pause, "And you escaped them on your own?"

Bor'om looked away, out through the viewport, "Not without…making some sacrifices," he adjusted the shirt he was wearing, ensuring his master's bone and lightsaber remained covered.

Another long pause. Bor'om felt the alien's eyes fixed on him, and presently his own gaze went from the window, to the floor, and back up to meet the alien's stare. Bor'om was about to plead his case more, when the alien exhaled sharply through its slit-like nostrils, and then turned to the control console and began flipping switches. The freighter's engines groaned to life beneath them.

"Do you know how to fly human?" It asked, still working the console.

Bor'om lowered himself into the seat, nodding slowly, "I've had some basic training."

"Good, I'll need a co-pilot to bring this ship into Graymar Station. Once I deliver this cargo and pick up a new hand, I'll take you where you're going."

"Coruscant," Bor'om said quietly, as he watched the surface of the planet drop away beneath them, "I'm going to Coruscant."

It was a short, quiet journey. In part, it was a welcome change; as they left the planet, Bor'om felt the minds of its people grow progressively weaker in his own mind, until they vanished altogether. He was left with just a feeling of The alien refused to tell Bor'om it's name, or listen to his. In fact, it seemed pleased to learn that he didn't even know what species it was. It wasn't averse to telling him why, either.

"You might be an escaped slave, human. Or you might be an escaped criminal. Your word isn't much to go on, so the less information we share, the better for both of us. Well, mostly the better for me. But I think that's a fair trade for transport."

Bor'om couldn't argue with the captain's logic, and as that seemed to put a stop to their conversation, remained silent, thinking, during the journey to Graymar Station. It was an unremarkable looking mining platform in an asteroid field, all spindles and landing pads and a web of cables reaching out to the nearest rocks. He remained aboard the ship as the captain went to unload his cargo, and when he returned with a heavyset Duros, Bor'om merely nodded and left the cockpit to them.

He spent most of the last leg of the trip in the ship's washroom, replacing his old bandages, and trying to avoid his haggard reflection. His back was still a pulpy mass of angry reds and crusty black, but the nerves no longer felt raw, or twinged at the slightest movement, though he couldn't be sure how much of that was the natural healing and how much was his continued use of the Force to control the pain.

When he finished he sat down in the privacy of the washroom and drew out his master's lightsaber. He had tried a couple of times to fix it while on the run, but everything had been working against him, and he never succeeded in getting more than a fizzle out of it. He held it up at eye level, slowly turning the hilt, noting the cracks and scoring, every dent and scratch.

The recessed activation stud seemed to be fine, judging by the hilt's response to pressing it. He peered through the bent and broken emitter windows and saw there was a sizable chip missing from the emitter itself. Tracing the seam of the hilt casing, he was pleased to note that the large gouges in the metal hadn't crossed it. Perhaps it could still be safely dismantled. Tentatively, he gave the lower half of the hilt a firm, steady twist. It moved as though undamaged. He carefully separated the two halves, exposing the chassis core. There, nestled at the heart, no larger than his thumb, was the blue crystal that his master had given life.

He concentrated on it, and immediately felt his back prickle as he shifted focus, but he grimaced and kept his eyes on the crystal. It shuddered in its mount for a moment, and then jolted free, floating just a few inches in front of Bor'om's face. The Force it had been imbued with was as strong as ever, he could feel it. Would it have turned out differently if she had been stronger in the Force, he wondered? Would she have lived if he had been?

The slowly rotating crystal gyrated faster and faster as these thoughts chased a thousand possibilities through his mind. This group, this "Court," they would pay for the suffering they'd caused. He was brought back to reality by the wailing of an alarm; the signal that they would be dropping out of hyperspace. Sure enough, a moment later he felt the subtle change in momentum.

His chest tightened as the reality of it set in. He had made it back. He couldn't bring himself to look at Coruscant just yet. Guiding the crystal carefully back into its housing, he distracted himself looking at the surrounding parts of the chassis, but couldn't gauge the extent of the damage. His examination was interrupted by a voice over the intercom.

"Human," the alien's voice, slightly distorted by the speaker, was impassive as ever, "We'll be landing in a minute. Meet me at the boarding ramp."

Sighing heavily, he rejoined the two halves of the hilt, and after a last, long look at the hilt, he slipped it back into his belt and made his way down to the boarding ramp. The lanky alien was there waiting as the ramp descended.

"Here we part ways, Human," it said simply.

"Yes," Bor'om paused, tasting the scent of Coruscant's air for the first time, "Thank you. You know, I'm willing to bet the Jedi would be able to compensate you for helping me."

The alien raised a scaly brow, "Jedi? I wondered. No, my peace and quiet will be compensation enough."

It was Bor'om's turn to raise an eyebrow, but when it became clear that the alien was serious, he smiled.

"Fair enough. Thank you," bowing slightly, he descended the ramp onto the landing pad, and no sooner had he hails a transport, then the freighter's engines fired and the ship disappeared.

Settling into the air taxi, Bor'om eyes scanned the cityscape.

"So, where to, human?" The driver asked.

Bor'om squinted at the five towers on the horizon.

"The Jedi Temple."


	10. First Intermission

The natural light that penetrated the shrine had faded until the only thing left illuminating the chamber was the glowing holocron and the projection hovering above it. The pilgrim showed no signs of fatigue, looking away only at odd intervals to withdraw a food capsule from the folds of their robe and take a nutrient pill. Occasionally the projection would display a diagram or schematic alongside its narration. It was usually just a ship, a weapon, or a planet relevant to the events the old man was relating. When these appeared the hooded figure would sometimes whisper indistinguishably, at which the old man's projection would pause, and nod, enlarging, rotating, or simply pausing on the image before continuing on.

As he finished, a miniature city scape materialized below his feet, the five towered temple he had spoken of right at the center, rising above the surrounding blocks and structures. The projection paused and looked down at it, drawing the pilgrim's attention there, too.

"From here," the old man said heavily, "things…change," The entire chamber shuddered as he spoke the word, prompting its visitor to jump up in surprise, but if the projection noticed, it gave no sign, and as he continued speaking, the room continued to tremble and groan, "My life is a testament to the arrogance of anyone, adept of the light or dark, who claims to know all the mysteries of the Force. You feel its power now, don't you? It acts beyond what we are capable of perceiving. You may have heard that it binds the galaxy, stitching reality , it can just as easily tear it apart."

The room suddenly lurched. By the time the hooded figure turned and saw the entrance rising out of sight, it was too late. The pilgrim moved hesitantly toward where the opening had once been, but the chamber continued sinking deeper underground. The room filled with cloying dust from grinding stone.

"Settle in," the old man said from behind, over the rumble, a hint of amusement in his voice, "One truth I can offer with certainty: The Force is a commitment…not for the feint of heart."

The pilgrim turned slowly to face the holocron's projection, which was wearing an expectant look on its face.

"Are you committed?" he asked. The chamber ground to a halt. As if he were actually present, the old man's robes billowed…and changed, subtly. Below him, the holocron changed as well; the pale blue light drained of color, and the heart of the holocron became obscured by fog-like wisps inside the crystal panes. Though the projection was now composed only of colorless shades, it was clear that its robes and garb were different than before.

After a long silence, the pilgrim nodded. The old man nodded in return and gestured toward the corner of the room, opposite where the doorway had been. The walls cracked apart, just as they had done when the chamber unsealed, but now they moved so slowly, it was barely perceptible.

"Very good. Let's continue."


	11. Book 2 Chapter 1

During the ride to the Temple, Bor'om anxiously debated how he should present himself to the counsel. Should he report to them immediately? Should he have his injuries tended first? At the same time he contended with the renewed flood of empathic input that came from the densely populated city-planet, which within minutes had given him a head-pounding migraine. He hadn't come any closer to deciding when the air taxi came to a stop in front of the Temple steps, but when he stepped out he had only a moment more to wonder about it before his body decided for him, and he collapsed.

He came to slowly, vaguely aware of a sense of weightlessness. He opened his eyes and found himself floating in a cylindrical tank of bacta, a breathing apparatus strapped over his nose and mouth. The healing solution had done its work; he couldn't feel the burns or lacerations anymore. Through the glass of the tank he saw a medical droid approaching at their typical, plodding pace. It stopped at a control panel and keyed a command into the panel. The bacta began to drain from the tank, and after a moment his feet touched the grate. When the last of the solution had flushed away, he stood dripping in the empty tank, gingerly stretching to see if there was any lingering sensitivity. His skin felt a little taught across the shoulders, but there wasn't so much as a sting left.

The tank lowered into the floor around him as he pulled the mask off his face, and the droid came forward, offering a towel and a stack of clean clothes.

"Padawan Bor'om, it is good to see you awake. It's been three days. I am B-6. The Jedi Council requests your presence as soon as you feel able. I took the liberty of stowing your belongings in the footlocker beside the door, should you need them for your audience with the Council."

"Thank you," Bor'om answered with a nod. He sighed deeply as he wiped the remaining gel out of his hair and ears. It was finally time to finish the mission. Setting the towel on a nearby bench, he went to the foot locker and lifted the lid, apprehensive of what he would find. Resting on top of the thin gray shirt and ragged, stained trousers was the belt holster and blaster pistol, and beside them, the ruined hilt and jagged bone shard of his master. He was a little surprised they hadn't taken those already, but if B-6 had done all the work, the droid would have no reason to treat any of the items differently. These were the only two things he took from the chest. Grabbing a spare robe that hung by the door, he stepped into the hall, slipping the heavy garment over his shoulders and withdrawing his hands into the sleeves where the broken hilt and broken bone could be kept low profile. As he walked to the council chamber, he began to mentally retrace the steps of their mission. He was grateful for the peaceful atmosphere of the temple; despite the horror he would soon have to revisit, a sense of calm ruled his mind.

At last he stood before the chamber doors, keying the pad beside them to notify the Council of his arrival. The doors immediately parted with a quiet hiss, and he strode resolutely in, taking his place in the center of the chamber, head bowed until he was addressed.

"Padawan Bor'om," spoke a soft, but electronically modulated voice right in front of him. He looked up into the face of the Kel Dorian Grandmaster, Vay Tahn, as he went on, "We are overwhelmed with relief that you have returned to us safely. Are we correct in saying that your mission has taken a number of unexpected turns?"

"Yes, Master," Bor'om replied firmly. He was about to show them his master's remains, but was distracted by a sudden ringing in his ears, and bowed his head instead, trying to suppress it.

"Please, Padawn, deliver your report," Tahn said, just as softly as before.

"Of course, Master," Bor'om said as the ringing finally faded. His gaze remained fixed on the ground as he went on, "Our only lead when we set out from the Temple was the possible location of the most recent disappearance, in a system not far from Corellia. There we discovered the rumors of other disappearances, and expanded our search…" He told them how they tracked each rumor and each lead to its source, time and again confronting only dead ends. But they had been careful in their investigation, kept it quiet, and it paid off when another mass abduction happened on Uzteca II; the abductors either oblivious that the Jedi were searching for them, or too sure of themselves to care. He explained that the trail had nearly gone cold again after reaching Uzteca, until they had heard about the unusual freight traffic going past Terical, where at last his empathic senses had led them to the slave transport.

"…but they had some kind of starfighters supporting them. They tried to destroy the freighter with us and the captives on board. Master Tenei," his voice broke slightly, and he had to pause, "She sacrificed herself to save me. We…I…don't know what became of the slaves. At this point, Masters, any rescue parties sent to find us know more than I, but I can give the location of the facial—"

"Padawan," Interjected Master Graaddik in Shyriiwook, her deep voice somewhat hesitant, "there were no rescue parties dispatched."

Bor'om looked at her, dumbstruck, and then he slowly turned, looking each master in the face in turn. Still, it seemed no words would come. After a few more moments of stunned silence, he managed, "But…didn't you receive our message?"

"We did," Master Tahn answered, "However, the Senate is in the process of negotiating a treaty with Terical. They…didn't want a Jedi intervention to put it at risk. We wanted to look for you and your master, Padawan, but it put too much in jeopardy."

Bor'om stared at the Grand Master for a moment, then swallowed, and looked away.

"I see," He couldn't see how they would do this, "I will keep the remainder of my report brief. The slavers took me unconscious from the wreck of the freighter," Too much in jeopardy? Their lives and the lives of the slaves weren't worth one political treaty? His head started pounding again, "They had a compound built beneath their refueling station. I can't say what became of it after my escape," Had he stayed, had he hoped for rescue…none would have come. "But I can readily locate the base again and…" he stopped, teeth grinding as his thoughts got the better of him. His eyes went to the windows, and then back to Master Tahn's inscrutable antiox mask, "I'm sorry, Master," he said through gritted teeth, "Will the council be able to _use_ this information, or will we need to wait on _approval_ from the Senate?"

"Padawan," chimed Master Misas, a gray-skinned Mikkian, "we understand your feelings, but you must not let them control you."

"No?" Bor'om spat, turning sharply toward Misas, "That's right, it's just you who controls us, who decides who lives and dies." His ears were ringing again, but he ignored it.

"Know your place, Padawan!" Graaddik growled, "We don't make any decisions lightly, let alone when the lives of those in our order are at stake. But every circumstance must be considered. Your perspective is obscured by the details you lack and the weight of your emotions. If you don't check those feelings, you will be lost in them! Your master knew this as she knew the risks of every mission. Such was her commitment. So should be yours."

Bor'om's head felt like it was going to explode, and the ringing had become unbearable. Turning in place, he saw no comfort in the Council members. Just the people who had left him and his master to die. But they were right about one thing. Summoning all his strength, Bor'om pushed back against the physical and mental pain, driving it down until it became manageable. But he didn't stop there. He imagined a dark hole in his mind, and began forcing the anger and sense of betrayal into it, not stopping until it was gone. His headache, his anguish, the ringing, all stopped abruptly, and he stood still. When he looked back at Master Graadik, it was with a neutral expression and impassive eyes.

"Did she know you wouldn't come?" He asked, but he didn't wait for an answer, instead turning to Master Tahn, "My report is finished, Master. If there are no more questions, I'll be in my quarters."

Again, not waiting for a response, he turned and left the room. As he descended in the lift to the Temple's main floors, he found that he still felt numb. He couldn't summon up any kind of reaction to his actions in the council chamber, or even to the Masters' revelation. Marveling slightly, he realized, he couldn't feel anything.


	12. Book 2 Chapter 2

The lift reached the floor where Bor'om was quartered, and he stepped off and made his way to the sparse room that had been set aside for him. There was just the sleeping mat and a simple desk and chair. On the desk lay a datapad, left for him to submit his report to the archives. He crossed to it and set his Master's remains beside it. Leaning over the pad, he entered a simple message. _I trust you'll see to the proper rites._ He palmed a panel on the wall, which fell back to reveal a small closet, with a backpack and a few changes of clothes. He remembered the regular back and forth he would have with Neah about his insistence on the deep blue robes he wore. They payed homage to the people of his homeworld, a seafaring culture for whom blue garb represented an individual's connection with the sky and ocean. It didn't seem as important now, though. His hand passed over the blue robes and pulled out the one traditional brown one. He could never argue against her point that the earthen brown robes the Jedi usually wore proved to be inconspicuous almost anywhere they went. He changed quickly, finally pulling socks and boots over his feet for the first time since his capture. Shrugging the robe onto his shoulders, he plucked the backpack from the closet and left the room without a backward glance.

Returning to the lifts, he continued down several more floors and stopped on the level housing the Temple's training and sparring facilities. He walked along the series of small workshops along the walls, built to provide any Jedi in the Temple with the necessary materials for lightsaber repairs and construction; everything but a focusing crystal. Finding a workshop that was unoccupied, he set the backpack down on the workbench and sat still in front of it for a moment. He let any distracting thoughts disappear, surprised again to find that drifting into the meditative state was easier now than it had ever been. Under the glow of the dim lights, he began to move among the drawers and containers in search of the right parts, pausing occasionally to open one, hand gliding over the components inside.

The first piece presented itself; a simple handgrip, wrapped in sturdy black leather. It rose out of the drawer and floated over to the workbench, hovering there as if waiting. He continued scanning the collection of parts, and moments later, a coiling, spiral styled emitter matrix, distinguished by a number of thick blue wires separated itself from the other parts and levitated over the table. In quick succession a blade emitter of curiously darkened metal, with a thin black and copper neck, and a matching switch ringed by several vertical ribs joined the other parts. After long, searching moment, a power cell, a handful of joining screws and a thick, cylindrical pommel also joined the collection of floating parts. Turning, he examined the various pieces in the light of the workbench, each one rotating around on every axis for a better view. They were all in perfect condition, and when he was satisfied, they descended into several of the compartments of the back pack. Sealing and shouldering it, he made his way through the Temple once more, toward the hangar.

It was a slow time of day. On reaching the hangar he found the sunlight pouring through the bay entrance and the docking crews milling about, only a handful of them tending to a single landing shuttle. He ignored them and made for an unattended SGS-45 Quarrel near the bay entrance, and none of the workers gave him a second glance. Striding up the boarding ramp and into the cockpit, he set the backpack in the co-pilot's seat and began the ignition sequence. The ship growled to life and as its various monitors and systems blinked on he began programming a destination. As the engines finished warming up, a red light began flashing on the console; someone contacting the ship. Hesitating only a moment, he keyed the audio-only through-put.

"Bor'om, what are you doing?" It was Master Tahn, his voice characteristically calm. In the cockpit, the young Jedi continued preparing the ship for takeoff as he answered.

"What must be done, Master."

"Do not trample the Code, Bor'om. This is not the way to honor Neah Tenei. Don't act on volatile emotions, young one!"

"I don't, Master," he answered, his own voice perfectly even. The final systems check cleared, and he grabbed the control sticks.

"Why are you doing this?" Tahn said, a note of resignation in his voice. There was a moment of silence.

"Because you won't," Bor'om replied, then killed the transmission and guided the ship out of the hangar bay. Quickly pushing the ship to maximum thrust, he had soon left the planet's atmosphere. As soon as the computer gave him the greenlight, he activated the hyperdrive and just as quickly as he had come, left Coruscant behind.

Emerging from hyperspace over a large, industrial world, still within the Inner Rim, he spent several minutes examining planetary information in the ship's computer before bringing the ship down at a large starport which the files indicated also dealt in used starships. Sure enough, as he descended from the ramp, he was greeted by a pair of well groomed, colorfully overdressed Ugnaughts. The nearer one spread his arms and bowed graciously, his vest stretching tightly over his stout figure.

"Welcome to Gentes," he said, his voice an odd combination of squeaky and gruff, "Do you require docking services?"

"Or looking to buy?" his partner chimed in with a significantly deeper voice, hands holding the front of his coat self importantly. His beady eyes held a poorly masked look of hunger as they passed over the Quarrel.

"To trade," replied the human. The two Ugnaughts looked at each other gleefully.

"Right this way, human, we have a fine stock to choose from" the first one said, then paused, "Er, for simple courtesy, what may we call you?"

He opened his mouth to answer, then reconsidered. The Jedi might not come looking for him, but then again, he had stolen a ship. There was also the fact that they had left Bor'om to die. Maybe it was better that he did.

"Borommakot," he answered, adopting a lower form of his name. It would be unlikely to fool a determined tracker, but it was common enough, and separated him from a life that already felt like a long time ago.

"Very good," answered the deep voiced Ugnaught, "Your ship appears to be in excellent condition. We'll have a survey droid assess the value," he snapped his stubby fingers and a spherical probe droid detached from a nearby charging station and hovered past them, muttering diagnostic code as it went, and began to scan the ship.

"What are you looking for?" Inquired the squeaky dealer.

"Just a one man ship that can manage distances without trouble," Borom answered, scanning the ships available for sale.

"Simple tastes, hm? Wouldn't know it looking at your old vessel, hm?" Chuckled the squeaky one, "Well I'm sure we've got just the thing."

The Ugnaughts led him around the port, stopping at several different ships. He went aboard a few of them, but none of them drew any kind of reaction. Presently they paused as the datapad the coated dealer carried began to chirp.

"Ah," the Ugnaught sighed, "the appraisal. Your, hm, Quarrel is it? Well based on this value, you could fly out of here with just about any light transport in our inventory."

Borom pointed, "What about that one?" It was a small ship with a long nose and rear positioned cockpit, with two large, oblong engines that swept down diagonally away from the body. It would have cut something of a grim profile, were it not for the garish yellow color, broken up by a few streaks of red-brown oxidation.

"That old HWK-290? Well, it may be a little undervalue," The Ugnaught said, waving a hand. Borom suspected the small freighter was more than a little less valuable than the Quarrel, but said nothing, "It's fast, though, point-seven past lightspeed, and excellent fuel conversion rates."

"I'll take that and two thousand credits." Borom said with a slight nod.

"Just two—" Started the squeaky one, before his partner cut in, "Of course! You have a deal, Borommakot!"

Another probe droid flew over while Borom signed the datapad, carrying a small, clear case containing the credits. Detaching it, Borom's turned to the Ugnaughts who gave him the ownership title.

"One more question before I go," he said, "Do you happen to know where I can get a good blaster?"

The HWK's engines whined as they reached full power, carrying him away from Gentes. Inputting a new set of coordinates into the navcomputer, his hand hovered over the hyperdrive ignition. Looking out at the twinkling expanse, it occurred to him that he could go anywhere; there was nothing between him and thousands of other systems, and possible new lives. But that wasn't what needed to happen. He was the only one who was going to do what needed to be done.

 _I may no longer serve the Jedi_ , he thought, _but if anything, that makes my responsibilities greater, not less._

"Ilum it is," he said aloud, triggering the hyperdrive. The stars stretched, spun and distorted, and the ship was gone.


	13. Book 2 Chapter 3

The ship dropped out of hyperspace to a white and gray sphere blossoming up in front of it. Ilum's surface swirled with arctic storms, rendering anything but the strongest sensors and scanning equipment useless. The HWK was definitely not equipped for that, but Borommakot knew scanners could be fooled. It was just one of many ways the Jedi protected their sacred sites.

Borom brought the ship down through the buffeting winds and blinding snow, down to the planet's surface, landing a short distance from a frozen cliff face. Reaching behind his seat, he pulled out the the heavy coat he had bought before leaving Gentes. Beneath it lay another purchase: a heavy blaster pistol in a new holster belt. He considered it as he pulled the coat on over his tunics, but eventually he turned his back on it. There was no danger here.

The ship's canopy opened and he was stuck by the frigid wind. Bracing against it he grabbed the backpack and climbed out of the cockpit and dropped into the snow. He could barely hear the crunch over the howling storm, but he noted that the snow rose to his shins. He remembered his Gathering as a child, when it had seemed to come almost to his thighs. Pulling the hood of the coat up, he crossed the snowy plane to the cliff face, where he quickly found the crevice opening that led into the Temple.

The antechamber was dim, with the weather outside snuffing out most light, but there was still the soft illumination of the ice walls that surrounded it. Directly before him was the Temple entrance, sealed by a curtain of ice. Looking up, he could barely see in the heart of the gloom the apparatus used to concentrate the sunlight into a beam that would melt the ice at dawn. Borom didn't intend to wait that long. Climbing up the few steps to the frozen entrance, he reached out a gloved hand toward the wall of ice. Again, the focus came more easily than it ever had, and he directed the Force into a sudden pressure. A massive web of cracks spread across the wall, causing it to groan and buckle. Borom sent another shockwave through it and it shattered into thousands of pieces, leaving the way open.

For a moment, he stood still in the opening, straining to see inside. Cold air rushed out of the caves, sounding like whispers as it passed him. He shivered. The Force had tested him when be had first come, as it did all younglings during their Gathering. He didn't know if it wouldn't do so again. Inhaling deeply, he began making his way through the caves.

 _They're darker than I remember_ , he thought, with just a few distant hints of glowing through the icy walls. Then again, the Gathering took place during the light hours of the day. Borom let his feet wander, thoughts stretched out in search of the right crystal. He had taken several turns, leaving the entrance far behind, when he heard something. It was like a breathe of air, but more distinct. An actual whisper. Borom cocked his head down the tunnel ahead, trying to hear the source. It came again, clearly a voice, but he couldn't hear what it said. He crept forward as silently as possible.

"Bor'om."

It was crystal clear this time, though hardly any louder. The hairs on his neck stood on end, as though he was feeling the cold for the first time, and he stood straight up.

"Bor'om!" The voice hissed out. He whirled and ducked down a side passage. Was it the Jedi? _How could they know what I was planning to do?_ He hadn't seen any sign of another ship, but if they had known he would come, it wouldn't have been any trouble to hide it. And they would stop him from getting a crystal.

He slipped into another tunnel, when he caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and spun and froze. No one appeared. Maybe they hadn't seen him. Easing backward, he turned and hurried further in keeping low.

He briefly considered whether it was worth the risk to push on, but he didn't know of anywhere else to find a crystal. _This was will by my only chance_. He concentrated again. Almost immediately, he felt himself being pulled deeper inside the caves. He moved in the direction of the pull.

"Bor'om, stop!" It was a shout now, but it was no clearer where it came from. He shook his head, flattening himself against the cave wall. Still, he saw no other movement. Crouching again, he moved further through the caves. He spotted a glow growing stronger ahead of him, through one of the icy walls, and the pull intensified the moment he noticed it. He picked up his pace. Despite his best efforts he began to feel something, creeping out of the dark hole in his mind with nauseating pulses. He began to be afraid.

He was so close, but had no idea how close the Jedi were behind him. And what would he do if they caught him? Fight his way out? He felt the Force more strongly since walking out on the Council, but the things were still pushing against the edges of that pit in his mind where he had bottled his emotions. Things like this fear, already threatening his grip on the Force.

Panting slightly he rounded a corner and froze. There, dead ahead was a shining point of yellow light embedded in the side of a stalactite that reached down almost to the chamber floor. But he felt it now, a presence. Had there been only one this whole time?

If he was quick he might be able to grab the crystal before the Jedi caught up with him. He lunged forward, swinging the backpack off his shoulders. He skidded to his knees beside the stalactite where the crystal gleamed, setting the pack on the ground in front of him. As gently and as quickly as he could, he teased the crystal out of the ice.

He paused, looking at it for a moment. It was a deep, amber color, thicker than his old crystal, with smooth sides, but knobbed, angular ends. A cracking sound from the caves brought him out of his reverie, and he shut his eyes.

The crystal floated out of his hand, hovering at eye level. One by one, the components in his backpack floated out, lining up on either side of the crystal. They rotated there as some of the smaller pieces made small movements to line up correctly. Finally they froze. The glow in the crystal intensified.

Borommakot heard more sound from the caves behind him, but furrowed his brow and focused harder. He felt the tendrils of fear and anger reaching out of the dark in his mind, and he willed the hole to close around them. The crystal glowed brighter in response. A crack in sounded in the ice, closer than ever, and then, the voice.

"Bor'om." Right behind him. His eyes flashed open, and the saber snapped together, dropping into his open hand as he spun and ignited it's brilliant amber blade, finally answering.

"Bor'om is gone," he said coldly. The creeping emotions vanished, driven back into the hole, and he steeled himself to face a Jedi…only to be left staring in confusion. The cave was empty. There was a perfectly smooth wall in front of him, the one that he had turned around to enter the chamber. Beyond, the caves were still and silent. Illuminated by the saber's glow, he saw himself reflected on the wall.

He slowly lowered the pulsating blade, approaching the mirror-smooth surface. So, he had been tested again after all. He had been hiding from himself the whole time.

"You think I'm hiding?" He said aloud, with only echoes in reply, "You're wrong. Bor'om's weakness is my strength! I'm doing what needs to be done!" He added forcefully. Nothing. Sighing through his nose, he deactivated the lightsaber and straightened up. He gave the cold walls a long, hard look.

"You're wrong," he whispered. Stooping he picked up the backpack and started the trek out of the caves, hanging the newly completed lightsaber on his belt. He remained attentive on the path out of the caves, wary for any sign of life, but there was none. At last he made it back to the entrance, and found that the ice had reclaimed almost half of it. Had really been that long? Ducking under, rather than shattering it again, he crossed the antechamber, steps slowing as he reached the crevice opening that would take him back out into Ilum's elements. He couldn't shake the feeling the caves had left him with, or force it into the pit with the rest of his ability to feel.

 _I don't need that to feel the Force_ , he assured himself, tossing the backpack up into the HWK's canopy as it opened, _My focus is_ stronger _now that I have forsaken feeling and it was worth the price._

Settling into the pilot's seat he began the ignition sequence. The ship's engines powered up and it began to rise.

 _The Jedi may think their hands are too tied to deal with this "Court" of slavers, but mine aren't. And if I succeed and the Order won't receive me back…it will be worth the price._


End file.
